The Incident
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Frank doesn't even need to ask.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

**Author's Note**: Originally written as a songfic to the lyrics from A. Adrian Belew's 'Model Man'.

**The Incident**

By L. M. Lewis

_Look at the signs; look at the symptoms.  
Look at the slight calm before the storm._

Frank closed the file but it seemed as though neither of the other two men had transferred his gaze from the spot where it had been open just a moment earlier. The silence was heavy.

"No _proof_, of course," Frank said. "Just one bad guy ratting out another. Might even be that Petrellis had nothing to do with that girl's disappearance. But still—"

"Thanks for the update," Hardcastle said heavily. He didn't sound very grateful, it was true, but he wouldn't have not wanted to hear, either.

"I don't see why you can't get a search warrant," Mark muttered.

"Probable cause," the judge replied quietly. "Which we haven't got here. This is all just hearsay, see? Serverus saying he heard someone saying Petrellis grabbed the girl and did all that stuff." Hardcastle shook his head. "No proof who took that photograph, or where, either. Hell, Severus had to push it off on someone—he was the guy who was found with it."

"And we're working on it," Harper added, without much conviction. "We're sure Serverus wasn't directly involved with the kidnapping. He's got one of those iron-clad alibis—he was in a local lock-up that weekend. But we've got him on some charges—hell, the picture alone—the girl was only fourteen."

"'Was'?" Mark said grimly.

"Well, it's been over two weeks."

"So no rush now, huh?"

Harper was on his feet. The look of weary disgust might have been mostly directed at the situation but he added, "You explain it to him, Milt."

But Hardcastle only shook his head. "Can't. He's got too much common sense. You can't even convince me this is what the Founding Fathers were thinking about when they made up the rule book." Then, with a look that was meant to convey some intensity, he added, "But there are rules, and if we break 'em the whole thing falls apart—not just the case against Petrellis—if there is one—but the whole damn thing." By this he meant something big, the whole system of criminal justice, maybe even the rights of man.

On the other hand, there was the photograph.

00000

Frank had departed, taking the damn photo with him. The truth was, he'd overstepped the bounds just bringing it—showing it to them—but he must've known how interested Hardcastle was in Petrellis. He had been the one who'd pointed the guy out to the authorities. It was his suspicions that had moved Petrellis up onto the short list for the disappearance of Jenny Drambuski.

Yet somehow Hardcastle couldn't help but think the lieutenant had other intentions. Frank could just as easily have asked him to come in to the office, maybe told him to leave his Tonto at home. Or he might have come with only plain words about the new development—not the photo itself. He hated to suspect Harper of ulterior motives though he knew, at the same time, Frank was plenty familiar with McCormick's inclinations.

_But he wouldn't use the kid._

"They'll get the warrant," he said, with little more conviction than he'd heard from Harper a few minutes earlier.

Mark shrugged, as if it was of no importance. In one way, of course, Hardcastle realized that was true. The younger man's system of ethics operated entirely outside the realm of writs and warrants. He thought he should say something about that at—at least a ritual 'And don't even think about doing it any other way.'

He supposed he should, not that it would do much good, unless it was accompanied by period of close confinement and strict watch, which would imply either a lack of faith, or a firm belief in the inevitable. Hardcastle sighed. He calculated the odds at slightly higher than ten to one, on account of the photo. It might be that the next best thing to reform was staying in practice.

He studied the younger man, sitting there looking distant rather than tense. It might be that he'd already made up his mind. The judge felt an impulse to ask him, just this once, but that would be breaking _all_ the rules.

He dismissed him with a nod and an off-hand comment. "The hedges aren't going to clip themselves."

For once, McCormick seemed grateful to go.

00000

Mark made excuses after dinner, and Hardcastle let him make them. He wasn't in much of the mood for a movie and popcorn himself, though he sat there in the den with the volume turned up and his eyes averted from the window for quite a while after the younger man had left for the gatehouse.

Eventually he went to bed, not checking to see if there were any vehicles not where they were supposed to be. He supposed he'd make a lousy alibi, but an even worse witness.

He dozed fitfully. He awoke once to what might have been the low growl of the Coyote, cutting off abruptly, and at a distance, as though the driver intended to coast in to the garage. He didn't look at the clock. Nothing would be provable by him. He waited in the long silence that followed, wondering if that was the stealthy sound of footsteps on the floor below. He did nothing to confirm it.

He did get up and go to the window, just in time to see an equally stealthy figure slipping across the drive and out of sight in the direction of the gatehouse. He'd had to allow himself that, and he was surprised at the amount of relief he experienced. Not that he'd be able to swear in a court of law as to the identity of the furtive figure—he'd only seen him briefly and from the back.

He considered going downstairs, but it would be damn awkward, later on, explaining the midnight arrival of anything useful. And somehow he knew that if there had been any question of time-sensitive material, Mark wouldn't have stood on ceremony—it would have been brought directly upstairs.

This time he slept. He went down, deep enough to dream. They were dark and truncated, a mix of the evil which had already happened, and the dreadful which apparently had not—thank God again—befallen them.

00000

The photos were neatly contained in a ziplock bag on his desk—undoubtedly it was McCormick's silent commentary on proper evidence-collecting technique. Hardcastle also had no doubt that they'd been acquired with attention to fingerprint-sparing, and now he continued the precautions, for both the bag, and the contents.

Perhaps his subconscious had made the decision that it would be easier to see this stuff in the light of dawn. His subconscious had been wrong. He was glad he hadn't had breakfast. It had been hard enough looking at what Frank had brought, but that one had been mostly portent. This was damnably complete and the evidence was undeniable.

He sat back heavily in his chair, swiveling to look out the window. The top of the fountain was just catching the sun's rays; the drive and the path to the gatehouse were still in the shadows. There were no signs of life from there, though Hardcastle doubted that the man inside was sleeping.

He turned around again and, still wearing gloves, slid the photos back in the bag. He opened the lower left-hand drawer, took out a nine by twelve brown envelope and put the bag inside. He did not bother addressing it. His pretense would not extend as far as mailing it in anonymously.

He rose slowly, stripped off the gloves, and deposited them in the waste can. He cast a glimpse at the clock and deciding that it wasn't too early to knock on the door of the gatehouse. He left the envelope on the desk.

He's been right. The door was opened, after an interval that was too short to have meant interrupted sleep, by a man who was still fully dressed—mostly in black. They didn't even exchange good-mornings. Hardcastle found himself ushered in without comment. Mark dropped back down into the chair he'd obviously been previously occupying.

Hardcastle supposed he ought to say something, but for once he was all out of words. Neither a reprimand nor a thank you seemed appropriate. Instead he settled for, "You okay?"

Mark ran his fingers through his hair. He didn't look okay, and it wasn't mere fatigue. He'd probably seen more than the photos.

"It's enough?" he finally asked wearily. "There were a lot more." His voice was flat. "There's a chance that he won't even notice they're missing. So . . . _much_." His eyes had gone as flat as his voice.

Hardcastle nodded.

"The backgrounds, they're his place. Right there," Mark started up again, sounding hollow. "That's where he did it. But I don't know how you can prove it, not without going inside first." He looked up, worried. "It's enough, though, for a warrant?" He shook his head, obviously past subterfuge. And then, still flat but more pressured, "I can't go back there. It has to be enough—"

Hardcastle cut him off. "It's plenty. I'll run it over to Frank." He looked down at his watch. "I better give Jenkins a call while he's still at home. He's probably not the one on warrant duty, but he'll be willing to help us after Frank shows him these."

He'd used the 'us' very intentionally. He was trying to bestow a tacit blessing stopping just short of outright approval. He felt guilty at holding back that much, but it was a dangerous precedent and he had to think about the long term, not just the current situation.

He couldn't be certain if Mark had picked up on it. He wasn't sure if the kid was getting anything right now.

"You should lie down; try and get some sleep." He had the good sense not to insist on breakfast. He tried to sound firm.

He had to settle for a nod from McCormick. There was no movement to back up the agreement. He let out a long breath, said goodbye, and left him sitting there.

00000

Frank looked no further than the first two photographs. The first might have been enough, but it was the second one, slightly less graphic but a pull-back that included details of the setting, that cinched it.

"An affidavit from Serverus, saying that's Petrellis' place. That'll do it." Hardcastle said. "Judge Jenkins is standing by."

Frank nodded, and nudged the photo back inside, with a gloved hand and an eraser tipped pencil. "From a concerned citizen," he said, as though he were quoting from frequent practice.

Hardcastle gave that a grim nod.

00000

He watched the wheels, now set in motion, begin to grind inexorably forward. That was enough for him. Leaving Frank to do his business—which he was good at—Hardcastle headed for home.

It was noon, or near enough, when he arrived. He saw the concerned citizen down on his knees among the rose bushes looking like a guy who took his gardening seriously. Mark didn't even glance up at the sound of the truck pulling in the drive. It was only after Hardcastle was out, and walking toward him, that the younger man looked at him, wiping the sweat from his face and squinting slightly into the sun.

"Got the warrant," the judge said, feeling grimly satisfied.

"And Petrellis?"

"Just the search warrant, so far." Hardcastle frowned. "Give 'em some time."

Mark grunted. He gave a weed a particularly vicious yank.

"Don't worry. They've been keeping a pretty close eye on the man the past few days."

McCormick looked up again. "Surveillance?" He swallowed. "Wish Frank had mentioned that." He knit his brows for a moment and then said, "But I was careful; I didn't see anyone."

"I think you shoulda pretty much figured they'd be keeping tabs on him," Hardcastle said sternly, but this was getting too close to a discussion of technique, something he had witnessed up close on one occasion but which he generally preferred not to hear about. He cleared his throat as though to change the subject. "Anyway, you eat yet?"

Mark winced, shook his head, and looked down at the pile of weeds next to his right knee.

"Well, that's what you're gonna do next," the judge announced. "So go get cleaned up while I make some burgers."

It might be a victory, but it was hardly a celebration, more a matter of necessity. McCormick seemed to get this. He gathered up the rest of the victims of his pent-up aggression without any comment, and carried them off toward the garbage.

00000

It was well toward evening when Frank finally showed up, looking tired but slightly less tense.

"Mark here?" he asked, as Milt led him into the den and waved him to a chair.

"Nah. Tuesdays. He's taking a class. There's a girl; I think he said her name was Andrea."

Frank nodded absently. He was barely seated before Hardcastle continued on. "How'd the search go?"

Harper's face went grim. "I'm not sure 'good' is the right word." He looked off a little to the side for a moment, then back sharply at Hardcastle. "We found plenty of evidence. There's a team still over there."

"The girl?"

"They've got a cadaver dog giving the place the sniff. Looks like the garage may be hot. Got some fresh concrete in there."

"And Petrellis?"

"He gave us the slip this morning. Must've realized something was up. Don't worry," Harper added hastily, "soon as we had an arrest warrant, we got an APB out."

"You found him?"

"Yeah, at the mall. Not the same one Jenny disappeared from."

Hardcastle grimaced. "Doesn't sound like you had him running scared."

"It's a damn compulsion with that kind," Harper said. "I think he was hoping to get one more before we caught up with him."

They sat for a moment, both men silent

It was Frank who finally spoke first. "I wanted to thank him."

"Ah," the judge looked up suddenly from his dark contemplation of what Petrellis might have accomplished in another twenty-four hours if Mark hadn't taken measures. He frowned. "Not a real good idea, thanking him for stuff like that."

"I suppose," Harper said reluctantly.

The judge thought he'd picked up a hint of guilt in that. His frown deepened. "You know, Frank, you coming over and waving that picture in his face, you shouldn't do that. It's kinda, I dunno, _provoking_."

There wasn't any immediate denial from the lieutenant. If anything, the guilty expression was solidifying.

"You had to figure there'd be a chance he'd jump in there and try and do something about it—and he knew Petrellis' haunts; that stuff's all in my file."

There was another strung-out silence from Frank's side of the conversation. Hardcastle felt one eyebrow drifting up in question.

"And what if he'd gotten caught? Your guys keeping an eye on things—he mighta walked right into that."

"Not last night," Frank finally said in self defense.

Both eyebrows were up now. Hardcastle dragged them both down and gave Frank a long stare.

"Petrellis," he said. "What about him? He mighta shown up."

Frank shook his head. It was as if he didn't want to admit anything more out loud, but Milt stared him down and he finally muttered, "Had my guys haul him in on a possession beef. It was less than an ounce of weed but it made for a pile of paperwork—took most of the night."

"It was his, wasn't it?"

"Course it was." Frank managed to look affronted.

"What if he hadn't been carrying?"

"We had a couple of old traffic violations. Coulda reeled him in to discuss those. He would've figured it for harassment, that's all. I'd kinda been holding that in reserve."

"For after you got McCormick wound up?"

Harper looked him straight in the eye, but he wasn't smiling. "Mighta been something like that. Anyway, I wasn't going to let the kid take a fall on this one."

"There's no guarantees on this stuff," Hardcastle huffed. "Besides, that's not the way it's supposed to work."

"But it wasn't going to work, not any other way," Harper shot back. "Petrellis was on the edge. Another couple of days of my guys watching him and he woulda bolted . . . but we couldn't _not_ watch him—there was too much at stake."

"You can't use McCormick, not like that," the judge said stubbornly.

"You mean I can't, but you can?" Harper shook his head. "And don't tell me you never have."

Hardcastle sat frozen. It was a little too close to the truth for an outright denial. He finally pinched the bridge of his nose, and then made a vague gesture with his hand.

"Maybe," he said cautiously. "He might get stuff once in a while—stuff we need." He thought maybe the 'we' was stretching the point. Harper didn't object. "But I swear, Frank, I never _ask_ him to do it."

"You don't have to," Frank countered, with a sigh of exasperation. "And neither did I. But I think if you really said no, he'd listen."

"He might, but then . . ."

"Then Petrellis would have hightailed it up to Oregon, and a few months from now we'd be hearing about more missing girls. I swear, Milt, I didn't do it lightly."

"And you won't do it again," Hardcastle said firmly. "Neither of us will."

"Until the next time we're desperate," Frank said. He sounded like a man who hoped sincerely it wouldn't be too soon.


End file.
